Once, a long time ago
by Letting The Rain In
Summary: Dean agrees to risk his health to save others from a long forgotten evil
1. Chapter 1

**Nothing being earned from this story**

**Can stand alone, but the nightmare is central to my other story 'There's something he should be saying'. If you've read that, you'll know what Dean was dreaming of, poor love. Not vitally important, though, just a way to link the two.**

**It was pointed out to me that I should mention when this story takes place. Thank's, Rinne, an oversight on my part. It's set in season one before John returns to the boys, is AU due to the fact he's part of this hunt, but hopefully in character.  
**

It was the hands that plagued Dean's dreams.

His mind had somehow blotted out the face; cloaked it in shadows even though he knew exactly how Peterson's face had looked during those moments, even though it was his smile and the look in his eyes that had haunted his waking hours. Still, for now it was the hands that his nightmares centred on; touching, tracing, grasping and gripping. Bruising and imprinting him, the hands marking his skin for their own.

Dean had been so terrified he couldn't breathe; pinned by the weight of the man's knee on the sensitive area where his spine ran through the small of his back he hadn't thought he was going to get out of it. He had cried out for his father, lying still and silent only yards away; the memory of those tears still burned on his face as new grief ran in their wake.

He awoke with a strangled yelp, bitten back and locked into his throat in a subconscious effort not to wake and scare Sam. Despite his own fear, Dean's first priority was to ensure his brother got the much needed sleep he so often went without.

Dean glanced at the figure in the other bed. Sam's face was far from peaceful, twisted into a frown as if the younger man could sense the emotions in the room but couldn't identify them.

Dean fought the pain in his chest. He had caught a cough a day before, the only illness that had ever troubled him in childhood. His immune system seemed to be wired differently to his brother's and father's. While they succumbed to colds and sniffles, Dean's body ignored the virus until it travelled to his lungs. While Dean was rarely ill, when he was, it was usually in spectacular style.

He should have known he would return to a familiar nightmare.

Untangling himself from the sweat damp sheets, Dean rose and left the room he had shared on numerous occasions with Sam during their childhood. Coming to Pastor Jim's had always held a sense of coming home, of a time to relax, even if only marginally. However, the house was tainted by the school two miles away and Dean, his mind still trapped within the memory, shivered.

He moved through the dark house on silent feet, seeming to touch neither midnight nor moonlight. His father had always boasted to his friends Jim, Bobby and Caleb, that Dean must have stolen the winged sandals of Hermes himself, so soundlessly he moved. Dean had always thought it a flawed theory; sandals just weren't his style.

Besides, his overactive mind continued, flying sandals were the most impractical thing he'd ever heard of. If you were being hoisted into the air by your feet, there was no way you'd be able to retain your balance. When Dean was eleven he would have explained to Sammy, who'd loved the story and spent that year repeating it to anyone within the vicinity, that you'd go ass over tit, had he been allowed to use the words.

Dean knew the diversionary tactic his mind was using, he'd used it so often on others down the years; Sammy, worrying about their father away on another hunt without his sons; teachers noticing the bruises, the absences from school and the frequent relocating; strangers staring at the scars and Jim asking when it's Dean's turn to be looked after, demanding John be a father to his children. In recent years it's been more a case of separating his family before they say something they shouldn't, before they can ask him to choose which one he'll side with, before they can tare him apart and pick over his remains.

Without his knowledge, Dean's musings had led him into the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, unconsciously echoing his movements from that long ago day.

John Winchester sat at the scarred wooden table; the mug cradled between his hands forgotten and cold, his eyes gazing into the night through the window, the only source of light shining through the glass to cast him in shadows.

John felt the eyes upon him; looking up he sought to find a smile for his oldest son.

"Dean," he acknowledged. "How're you feeling?"

Dean gave him a lopsided grin, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "Fine, good. Coffee?"

His father frowned slightly, but allowed himself to be distracted. If Dean didn't want to talk about any of the fights that had occurred tonight, John wouldn't push him. He knew from experience that when Dean was hurting, he went to great lengths not to let it show. He did it well.

Knocked down, always Dean rose from the dust. Before it's settled, there's has a smirk on his lips, an extra swagger in his walk and a challenge in his eyes, daring anyone to tell him he's beaten.

It's an impressive display and it should be; the devil-may-care attitude he revels in, the aura of indestructibility that impresses so many, but the rare few who truly know Dean Winchester see him retreat behind the mask, bandage himself as best he can behind his protective barriers and emerge shaken yet more determined.

It's Dean's coping strategy. Always has been and always served him well enough. Frightens the hell out of his family, watching him shut down, close himself off and distance himself from whatever, or whomever, has triggered the bleeding from the strong yet strangely fragile soul.

John's seen it many times over the hard years. When kids at school had taunted his broken family, when the girls he's dated have become impatient with his inability to fully interact with those around him due to his hyper-awareness, when John himself has snapped at a mistake, a move not perfected soon enough or a hard lesson to learn. John saw it when a much younger Sammy declared Dean was stifling, not needed anymore.

John can see it now; Dean will not allow pain, fear or illness to become apparent to others, where they can use it against him and cause more hurt. He will not allow weakness and that's mostly John's fault for being unable to teach a distraught little boy the unforgivable finality of death, for letting his sons learn life is hard and that when it pushes you, you have to push back.

It's not as bad as when Mary died, though, it never will be. Dean retreated behind walls built in haste and fortified in solitude so far the boy hadn't spoken for several months. Hadn't acknowledged the world around him, not the new people his father met with, not the miles they travelled. He only saw Sammy and it had been the baby who eventually brought him back.

He had raised a podgy hand to Dean standing forlornly by the door, watching as his father set the child onto the ground to play. He had uttered his brother's name perfectly, as if he had been practising secretly until the word was unmistakable. As if even then he was announcing his brother was his guiding light, not his father, his brother was his hero, his one constant.

Dean.

And just like that the four going on forty year old had ran to him, skidding on the carpet in his haste to kneel by the baby, whispering with a voice rusty from disuse, asking to be named again.

Dean.

John rose from the table, grimacing as his body reminded him that he had been sitting there for hours following his argument with Jim, who had stomped off to bed muttering under his breath and cursing all Winchesters and their damn stubbornness. Except possibly Sam, whose own stubborn tendencies led him in the direction of openly opposing the latest plan until his brother had told him to shut the hell up as he hadn't a say in it anyway.

There had been a silent storm called Sam sulking in clenched jawed anger inhabiting the kitchen for several hours until John sent his boys to bed like they were children. Dean, exhausted, had complied without much fuss, taking Sam with him only so the latter could berate the former in the privacy of the spare bedroom once more given over to the 'kids'.

John, emptying the mess that had once been his coffee into the sink, glanced over at Dean. While it was safe to say the boy was certainly ill, he wasn't ill enough yet. He sighed softly, wondering what had brought them to this, what sort of father would ask this of his child.

_Sam Winchester paced the small motel room in short bursts. He periodically glanced at his older brother, sat against the headboard on his bed with a paper in his hands and studiously pretending to ignore him. Sam gauged the pallor of his skin, the flush beginning to show on his cheekbones and the tapping of his fingers as he mentally drummed out the beat to one of his favourite songs._

_A couple more strides across the room and Dean was going to explode. Sam could almost predict the moment he was going to do it._

_One more journey and –_

"_God damn it, Sam! Alright, give me the stuff. Just, quit it, would ya?"_

_Sam blinked at his brother in calm bewilderment, an expression he knew drove Dean to the edge. _

"_Quit what?"_

_Dean growled unintelligibly from deep within his chest, a warning he had one nerve left and Sam was getting on it. Unfortunately, it caused his congested lungs to emit another racking cough._

_Sam was at his side immediately, all trace of amusement gone. He placed his hand comfortingly on the hard planes of Dean's back._

"_Here," he handed Dean the anti-flu pills and a glass of water. _

"_Dude, I've not got the flu," Dean sighed, taking the water and shrugging the hand off. "Get off me."_

"_Some of the symptoms are the same," his brother answered, not in the least offended at the rude treatment his hand had received. Just getting that close to Dean was a milestone in itself. "Besides, I know how cough syrup makes you sick."_

_Dean glowered at him, but dutifully took the proffered pills. He had, after all, said he would._

_Knowing which buttons to push, Sam stood, pretending to be interested in the paper Dean had been reading. _

"_You should get to bed, you look like crap."_

"_When I start taking beauty advice from the guy who looks like his hair wants to add something to the conversation, that's when I'll know I'm sick."_

_Nevertheless, Dean pulled his over shirt and jeans off before sliding into his bed. He knew Sam had given him an out and despite his last comment, was grateful. His limbs felt like lead and it was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open._

_Turning into his preferred position on his stomach, Dean found peace almost instantly, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, gripped around his knife. Sam watched him fondly for several moments, the only opportunity he had to check on his older brother._

_Despite Dean's insistence to the contrary, he wasn't getting better. His long lashes grazed his ashen cheeks, where the beginning of fever was making it's presence known. His lips were parted, his breath puffing out in wheezes, panting in a rhythm that wasn't his. Sam had been concerned at the heat that had emanated from Dean when he had placed his hand on his back, now he held both, palm down, over the sleeping form, confirming his concern was well placed when his skin tingled at the warmth._

_When the congestion in his brother's lungs appeared to worsen, some hours later, Sam stood slowly from the table where he had placed his laptop. Not taking his eyes off Dean, Sam reached out to the bedside table, picked up his phone and speed dialled._

"_Sam," the old pastor greeted warmly on the second ring of the phone. "It's good to hear from you."_

"_Jim, I'm sorry to call so late," Sam apologised, only to be cut off._

"_Nonsense, it's always light somewhere on the world, my boy. What can I do for you?"_

_Sam hesitated. "It's Dean. He's sick. Not bad," he added quickly as he heard his father's friend gasp. "But it's a cough and you know how he gets. I can handle it, but …"_

"_Come on over," Jim offered, remembering the few times he had seen Dean Winchester unwell. Unlike his father and brother, who were prone to grumpiness and scowls, Dean pretended there was nothing wrong. "We'll work together to get him healthy again. Never did know when to get out of the rain, that brother of yours."_

"_Sam?" Dean's groggy voice rasped from his bed. "Who're you talking to?" _

"_Jim, I've got to go, we'll be there soon." Sam ended the call with a thanks, cursing Dean's ingrained habit as a light sleeper. "Put your boots on, big brother, we're going on a road trip."_

Sam had ignored Dean's protests, once he had dressed, grumbling sleepily, into his jeans and old grey hooded top, wrapping the blankets stolen from the motel around him, effectively tucking him into the passenger seat of the Impala.

He knew from experience that the car wasn't designed for comfortable sleeping, but after giving his brother more pills and water, Sam had brought his brother to the one safe haven they had ever known.

Jim had contacted their father, his old friend, mentioning the illness. John had realised the opportunity his sons had unwittingly handed him, researching as he was an old enemy. Not _the_ enemy, but one who had long since occupied the back of John's mind. He had driven down immediately, despite his own self imposed distance from his sons, to explain his plan.

Sam, naturally, had greeted him warily, while Dean had moved forward with a smile, relief shining in his gentle, grateful eyes. John had almost choked on the powerful effect his child's proximity had on him; while Sam could wound with his words, Dean innocently sucker punched with a simple expression. John had awkwardly cleared his throat, ashamed, knowing what he would soon be asking. Knowing, also, that Dean wouldn't refuse him.

Sam had instantly reverted back to his argumentative mode, declaring he knew John hadn't come back for Dean. It was as if the years between had never passed. Knowing Sam was right hadn't made it any easier, either.

But Dean had readily volunteered himself for the hunt, had agreed he was the best chance at saving the innocents being taken from the local hospital.

The family had met this particular evil once before, when Dean had been in hospital and an impending victim. John, by his bedside, had arrogantly believed he could destroy the creature. He had watched as Dean awoke screaming, begging his father to shoot the damn thing, but John hadn't seen anything. It emerged that only the truly suffering were permitted to glimpse it. Dean had managed to point to it and John had shot off several rounds. Dean reported he had clipped it and it was gone, but not finished. It had fled the area and until two days ago John hadn't heard a trace of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter goes back a bit from where the first finished. Hope it's understandable, all this jumping around.**

**Don't own Supernatural, of course, nor Red Dwarf. Lets see how many of you recognise the quote!**

**The creature's not mine, either; it really is a German poem. I recommend it; it's not pretty, but evocative.**

Once Pastor Jim had received Sam's call, he shook the cobwebs from his sleep numbed mind and set about readying the guestroom.

The boys had slept peacefully in that room since early childhood, beginning not long after they lost their mother. Most of the time Jim referred it to as 'the boy's room'; visitors who didn't know him well often assumed he had had children himself.

He certainly cared for them as if they were his own, often taking them in when John knew he would be gone too long for Dean to be left in charge and he privately thought some of his input had gone into making the children the men they were.

Jim smiled softly. Although twenty-six and twenty-two, it was hard to think of them as adults; the boys still argued good naturedly the way they had always done, they still teased and taunted, supported and strengthened in a pattern Jim had come to recognise. Still, while Jim knew they were both competent hunters, some small part of his mind refused to let go of the children they had been.

Straightening from his task placing fresh sheets on the beds, Jim took a moment to prepare himself for the arrival of the brothers.

He knew how much Dean would hate a fuss, knew how much Sam wanted to spare the boy the task of looking after him - most likely the prompt for his call. If Sam could show that he was well cared for while his brother gave himself time, Dean would be much more amiable in letting his guard down.

Jim was already mentally preparing the phrases he would use in order to prise the older boy away from Sam, what he could do to urge Dean to relax and rest as he swept a critical eye around the small, clean room.

No doubt Dean would be feverish, he so often was with a bad chest, so the pastor placed another two blankets at the foot of his bed, knowing Dean would insist on sleeping in the one nearest the door.

It was a lesson his father had scared into him one night he had never forgot. Jim felt the frown mar his face as his disapproval, still so strong after all these years, surfaced.

There was no doubt John loved his boys, knew them in a way no-one else could, but sometimes his treatment of them appeared a little harsh, occasionally brutal. He was harder on Dean because, as Dean at the tender age of ten had explained earnestly, it was Dean's job to protect Sammy.

John, his friend knew, had thought the boy would tire of his insistence of shielding Sam from the horror that pulsed within the world, but Dean had stubbornly kept at it, taking hit after hit for his little brother, determined to give Sammy the childhood he himself had sacrificed.

It was this huge heart that Jim loved him for. While most people upon meeting the children had taken to Sammy, whose dimples and sunny smiles had charmed them out of the gate, Jim had always had a soft spot for the more haunted child who looked at people through the eyes of a soul who had seen far too much.

Although beautiful, those eyes could pierce the heart, causing people to turn away when the intensity of Dean's appraising stare had become too painful. They expected him to be a child, carefree and innocent and found a boy who could see so clearly into them, into their most hidden and sacred flaws, it was uncomfortable. Jim had been immensely relieved when his more playful, exuberant nature had emerged. Yet another coping strategy, of course, but at least it allowed the true Dean to shine.

It was also this huge heart that had caused Jim to fear. Dean was much more vulnerable than he let on and Jim would keep his secret for him, as he had promised so very long ago.

Jim moved naturally to the phone, listening as he got John's voice mail. He explained the boys would be with him for a few days and that John was not to give them any jobs until he got the say-so from the pastor because Dean was ill.

Lecture over; he softened his tone as he asked his friend how he was, if he was taking care of himself and whether he needed any help.

"Rest well, old friend. I've got the boys safe," Jim reassured in a ritual almost as old as Sam. Placing the phone back in the cradle, he moved to the kitchen to begin cooking. Whether it be tonight or tomorrow, when they arrived the boys would be hungry. They always were.

Sam eased into the drive of the old house, braking gently and turning to his brother. He wasn't surprised to see Dean awake; he could always tell the change in the engine when he had reached his destination.

"We're here," Sam announced needlessly.

He got out, jogging round to the passenger side to assist Dean, who glared at him until he backed away again.

Dean launched himself out of the car, barrelling past Sam as if daring the other Winchester to stop him and marched around the side to kitchen door. Sam followed with a sigh. Dean's philosophy had always been if you can't beat it, stomp on it.

Pastor Jim was waiting for them, had probably been up since Sam's call and the boy winced guiltily.

The man was shorter than Dean's six foot, slimmer too, but he still forced a warm embrace on eldest brother before standing back, holding him at arms length to appraise him.

"You need to eat more," he smiled, shifting his gaze to include Sam, frowning slightly at what he saw. "You both do."

He held his arms out for the taller boy and felt the bones just beneath the surface of the skin, causing him to frown again.

Jim ushered the boy's in, bustling towards the coffee pot – a Winchester addiction passed from father to son's – and filled three steaming mugs. Setting them on the table in front of the plainly exhausted young men, Jim turned to the oven where a lasagne was keeping warm so he would have time to grow used to the pallor of their skin.

Jim had understood that Dean was unwell, could hear it in his tight breathing, but hadn't been prepared for the unwholesome colour of the younger brother. Sam had lost weight, also, since the last time he had visited, not long before Jess had died.

Clearing his throat and attempting to fill the silence, Jim spoke with his back to them, dishing out the meal, adding another dollop to Sam's plate.

"I called your father," he announced, as if they were any other family.

"You called his voicemail," Sam corrected with a small laugh.

"Well, yes," the pastor agreed amiably. "But it was on his phone."

"Yeah, we're beginning to develop quite a rapport," Dean told him, the familiar grin gracing his features. "I think we're bonding. Could be the start of something special."

Jim laughed with him, pausing when a cough erupted from the boy. "Eat," he instructed, knowing questions about his health would be unappreciated.

The pastor sat with them, observing them as unobtrusively as he could. Sam ate quickly enough, complimenting the chef and nodding encouragingly at his brother. Dean picked at the meal, attempting a few bites with nothing like his usual gusto and staring in disgust at his sibling.

"Geez, Sammy, have I been starving you?"

"It's good, isn't it?" Sam replied, defensively and with a pointed nod in Jim's direction.

"What's the matter with you? You hurt your neck or something?"

Jim hid a smile as, with a long suffering sigh, Sam bent back to his meal. Dean stared at him a moment more before going back to pushing the pasta and meat around his plate, amusing himself with making patterns and gulping hot coffee down a raw throat until his brother had finished.

Sam and Jim made small talk while they both waited for Dean to signal he was ready to retire. They both knew that he wouldn't be pushed into it.

Just when Sam thought his brother was going to fall asleep at the table, hunkering down in his soft, worn hoodie, Dean's head suddenly lifted, his eyes alert and his face set.

"Someone's here."

Sam moved instantly, never once questioning his brother's statement. They had survived by following their instincts and each other's skills thus far and it was a habit to move as a unit, albeit a small one.

Jim knew the boy's had brought weapons into his house although they knew his views on the matter. He may not like it, but he was realistic enough to know no-where was truly safe. Especially with Winchester's in the vicinity.

The shot gun in Dean's hand was like an extension of his body as he moved automatically in front of his brother, protective instincts flaring, illness forgotten and both gaze and hand steady. Sam was ready in his position as wingman, backup and unwilling protectee.

The shadow of a figure formed through the thick glass of the door window. It paused momentarily before the door opened.

Dean's finger tightened ever so slightly on the trigger, ready and more than able to shoot first ask questions later.

Sam physically felt his brother shift into hunter mode, alert and aware, all his playfulness gone, the dumb act dropped and the true brilliance of his being shining through.

He heard Dean swear before the figure spoke.

"Easy, boys. You could hurt someone."

"Dad!" The exclamation was torn from Sam before he knew what he was doing.

John Winchester smiled wide, accepting the tight embrace his eldest bestowed upon him, holding on as if making up for the long months he had been gone. Breaking apart, John found he had to avert his eyes to give himself time to assume a less revealing expression.

He glanced at his youngest son. "Sam," he murmured, voice low and gravely, much like Dean's. "It's been a long time."

Sam found himself nodding, frozen in shock, unable to cross the distance that separated him from his father. Four small steps that would bridge a gap of four years. It was too long, too hard.

"What are you doing here?" he croaked instead.

John turned his gaze back to Dean. "I'm chasing an Erlking, a descendent of the original -"

Sam voice was cut with wonder. "That's a German poem, how is that possible?"

The youngest Winchester cringed when three pairs of disbelieving eyes turned on him.

His father attempted to spare his blushes. "You're right, it is a German poem. Who knows what inspired the author?"

Dean shook his head, looking like he immediately wished he hadn't. Jim sat at the table, offering a chair to Dean as if the boy was doing him a favour by joining him. Dean hesitated, he was being offered an obvious out, but his dad sat also and Dean gratefully joined the older men.

"Back up," he rasped, aware that he was going to cough any minute and have to fend off Jim and Sam's well meaning glances in the face of John stoic inscrutability. "What's this poem about?"

Unsurprisingly it was Sam who answered. "A father is carrying his son home. The boy's sick. Before they reach the place, the boy claims he can hear and see a … a creature. It offers him wonders, peace. His father pleads with him to stay, but the boy succumbs. By the time he gets home, the child is dead."

"And that thing's here?" Dean asked, a wheeze echoing his final word, much to his annoyance.

"It's here again," John corrected. "We've been up against it before, but we're better prepared this time."

"We are?"

"We know what we're facing," John pointed out. "We know what'll kill it and we know what'll lure it."

As he spoke, his eyes travelled to Dean, bent over in a bone shaking cough. Sam followed his gaze, immediately grasping John's meaning.

"Dean's not that ill. He's no-where near dying." His voice was inhumanly calm, his eyes burning twin holes into John's.

"He doesn't have to be dying; we knew that from last time. Just sick enough to see it."

"Last time?" Dean asked, swallowing against his protesting throat and rubbing his chest in an unconscious movement.

"You probably don't remember," John allowed, ignoring the heat from Sam's glare. "You were sick and very young."

"It was that time in the hospital, wasn't it?"

Everybody at the table turned to Sam, the venom in his voice surprising them all, even himself. He stared at his dad, tears brimming in his eyes. He remembered, even if Dean didn't.

Dean had been small then, Sammy smaller still. It had been a time when the fear hadn't left John's eyes, when the day was as dark as the night and the word 'pneumonia' echoed down empty corridors. It had been a time of long waiting and little sleep, of heartfelt prayers and hopeful pleas.

Despite the doctors, in Sammy's young eyes and innocent belief's workers of miracles, Dean had worsened the longer he stayed. On the third night, Sammy had watched as his brother shouted at nothingness, his father blasting the heavy, loud gun over his bed wildly, Dean's mouth running red as his panic tore at his weakened lungs.

Sammy had been terrified. Truly and utterly, for the first time in his short existence, unprotected by his brother. Dean had collapsed, gasping that it was gone, fled. John had sank shakily onto his chair, his face stricken in horror, staring at Dean as if he had never seen him before, before rousing himself enough to begin screaming for a doctor as his son flat-lined before him.

They had, as far as Sam knew, never told Dean the full story, remembered only in snapshot images by his brother, in full screen nightmares by his father. Now, as Sam shared his memories, Dean absorbed them silently.

Once Sam, glaring at his dad with a challenge to stop him, mentioned the near death, Dean grinned. "Cool. So, did they have to shock me?"

Sam ignored him, his eyes fixed on John. "You want to use Dean as bait."

It wasn't a question. John found he had to look away. Dean was watching him, emotions guarded, impossible to tell what he was thinking, Jim disapproving and stern, Sam the worst of all. His long fingers had curled into fists, his shoulders were tucked up, tense, his teeth were clamped tightly and the muscles in his jaw working.

"With his permission," John demurred. Sam snorted, and the eldest of the Winchester men continued. "I think it returns to those it wasn't able to lure away. It doesn't like leaving unfinished business."

"It's cool," Dean shrugged. "Just give me a gun and whatever'll kill it. Smoke me a kipper and I'll be home by morning."

Sam couldn't help himself; the eye roll was over before he could stop it, earning a reprimanding glare from his dad. "You have to be sicker, you moron," Sam snapped. "You have to be really, really sick. It won't come for just any old chest cold."

Dean tried to sigh, but a wheeze escaped instead, not quite the image he had wanted to portray. "So I'll stop taking the flu pills," he grunted.

"No, Dean, you have to be hospital sick," Sam gritted, his clever words failing him in his haste to make his brother understand. "Like last time. When what the doctors were giving you weren't … working …"

Trailing off, Sam turned to their dad. "You sick son of bitch! You set him up!"

John stared impassively, while Dean frowned in confusion.

"Sam," Jim murmured, lifting a hand out to the young man.

"No! Dean, he made you so ill the Erlking couldn't pass you up. He got you into the hospital, in a private room for Gods sake and whatever they did, they couldn't heal you. Not until after –"

He paused to turn furious eyes back to John. "You stopped those drugs from getting to him. How did you do it, huh? A leak in the IV? Was that it? God, how didn't I see it before?" He was roaring now, his face flushed unhealthy red in anger. "Everyone was so baffled and Dean getting worse and suddenly just getting better? You twisted piece of -"

For the first time, despite their many arguments, Sam lunged at his father.

John began to react, lifting an arm to block the blow, but it never came. Dean had risen from his chair, tackled his brother and rolled across the floor with him.

"That's enough!" Dean, coughing harshly, held Sam down. "Sam! That's enough. Enough."

The haze slowly faded, replaced by tears and Sam let his arms fall, his body become limp. Dean gingerly pulled away, sitting on the floor. "It's ok, Sammy," he sighed, patting the younger man's leg roughly. He glanced up at his dad. "I'm in."

There followed another explosive outburst from Sam, and Dean finally snapped. Sam continued to sulk in the corner while his brother and father hashed out a rough plan. Afterwards, John told his sons to get to bed and turned to his old friend.

"Go on, spit it out."

Jim eyed him sternly. "You know exactly how I feel about this, John."

"You know if he refused I wouldn't press him."

"You knew he wouldn't refuse!"

"Jim-"

"You're asking him to risk his life."

"Dean risks his life whether I ask him to or not. This is what we do."

"But not with this many dangers. He'll be in a much more weakened state, he might not be well enough to go through with this. You're playing with fire, John, but it won't be you who'll end up burnt!"

"Won't be-? Are you serious, he's my son! Don't you think I've thought about this? You heard our plans, I'll be with him. I won't let him out of my sight."

"John –"

"Dean's agreed to it, Jim. Damn it, I don't see much choice here. Kids are dying and we can stop it."

Jim frowned. "Don't try preaching to me, Jonathon Winchester. You sound like an ass."

John sighed, suddenly looking fatigued. "Jim, do we have to do this? I'm going to have to deal with Sammy in the morning as it is. Dean's agreed. We're doing this. If it makes it any easier for you, we'll leave once the boys wake. We can get a motel nearer the hospital."

"Oh no you don't! I'm going to be involved in this; Dean'll stay where I can keep my eye on him."

John smiled gratefully. "Thank you, old friend."

Jim stood as if he hadn't heard a word. "And once he's well again, I'll teach him to scare me like this."

John watched the pastor leave the kitchen, grumbling to himself and John sighed, standing to help himself to coffee from the pot.

It would be several hours later that Dean would find him there, pondering the old Pastor's words in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Still pathetically broke …**

**I'd like to thank the kind people who've left a review – you know I appreciate you, right? **

**It's actually been harder to right this than my last story, which is a bit worrying as that had such a hard topic to cover, so the reviews are helping me keep going. Hopefully this chapter will actually get down to the action!**

Sam wearily opened his eyes.

Velvety dawn light filtered through the threadbare curtains of the cheap motel, but he knew this wasn't the cause of his early return to wakefulness.

Soft, wet wheezing filled the silence of the room and Sam realised with a jolt that it had been his brother's breathing that had startled him. He had spent his life listening to Dean and a change in pattern was like a siren, a screaming alert in his mind. Getting out of bed, he padded barefoot to his sleeping sibling.

He was getting worse, of that there was no doubt. Dean coughed harshly, waking himself up with a moan. Sam's hand had been halfway towards his brother's forehead and he froze as he saw moss green eyes glare at him.

"Dude," Dean snapped, voice rough, coughing again. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Going to the bathroom," Sam replied automatically. Heaven forbid the big jerk think he was worried.

Dean narrowed his eyes, glancing at Sam's hand, still outstretched towards him. "Did you want me to go with? Or did you mistake me for a urinal cake?"

Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust. "That's sick, man."

Dean shrugged, sitting up and unconsciously rubbing his chest. "You're the one going to the toilet in my bed."

"Whatever," Sam snapped. He left the room angrily, not a good start to the morning.

When he made it to the kitchen, the centre of the Pastor's house and the general meeting point, he found his father up and planning, Jim preparing pancakes. Sam paused, unsure if his presence was welcome after his near swing last night.

Steeling himself with a grimace, he stepped into the bright, sunlit room. Glancing at the table he sighed inwardly. Discussing demons over breakfast always seemed somewhat wrong, at least to him, perhaps fuelled by the fact that John and Dean had never even noticed the weirdness of it all.

His father had spread several sheets of paper across the space before him, was tracing a finger along an important paragraph on one, eyes scanning another sheet for corresponding information.

Sam opened his mouth to ask what his father had got on the Erlking when he felt Dean come up behind him. The energy that always seemed to emanate from his brother, crackling and dancing around him like some sort of electricity, was in full swing today, a sure sign Dean was putting extra effort into it.

"Boys," John said, by way of a morning greeting.

Sam, still slow to move, watched as Dean passed him and strode to the table, their father's journal in hand. To an untrained eye it appeared as if his brother was battling nothing more troubling than a paper-cut. Sam, however, had learnt over the years to know when Dean was shamming.

"I remembered you had an entry on that thing," Dean announced, voice thick with the sputum he had coughed from his lungs, now clinging to his vocal cords. Sam smiled; his brother sounded odd and he knew Dean was going to be pissed at that. He ploughed on, regardless. "You said you thought it could be hurt by holy water."

He sat himself at the table and Sam reluctantly joined his family. His Dad looked across at him. "Sammy."

"Dad."

John regarded him heavily. "You going to be more productive today, son?"

Sam glanced at Dean, saw him beam, nodding encouragingly and sighed. His brother had explained in no uncertain terms that either Sam could come with and have his back, or he could stay home and leave them to it. He knew Dean wanted him there, if only to be able to keep an eye on him and tease him out of his dark brooding. He nodded firmly. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I need to know I can count on you," his Dad continued, his gaze never wavering.

Dean, perhaps sensing a fight in the making, spoke before Sam could form a reply. "You can. Little Sammy's saved my ass on a couple of occasions."

He paused, a wide grin causing his eyes to sparkle. "Of course, I've saved him more. Still screams like a girl," he mused, before adding, "Must be the hair."

John ignored his oldest son, his eyes locked with those of his youngest. "I won't have a repeat of yesterday, Sam," he said softly, challengingly.

Sam bristled instantly, knowing the smile had gone from Dean's lips, the light fading from his eyes, but he didn't break eye contact. "Yes sir."

John granted him a small smile.

Sam continued. "But the minute he's in trouble, I'm pulling him out of there. No arguments."

His father stared impassively while Dean appeared to be holding his breath. Finally, John nodded. "If he's too bad, I won't stop you."

Sam nodded, accepting the small ground his Dad had given. At his side, Dean coughed and Jim appeared to feel this was his cue to break the tension. He placed a plate of pancakes on the table, shooting John a look until he cleared his papers away. Jim had always had a rule about reading at the table that his friend didn't share.

Sam watched as Dean wiped his mouth, looking tired, while the pastor rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. Sam's respect for the man doubled; if he'd tried that he'd have been massaging life back into his arm by now.

Sam found himself following his brother through the house that day, much as he had done as a child. He told himself it was to be at hand if Dean needed him, but while that was true to an extent, he found himself needing the solid, unwavering presence in the face of the turbulent emotions his father's arrival had unsettled.

For once, Dean didn't comment on his continued attendance. Whether it was because he was drastically getting worse as the day lengthened, or whether it was his way of showing he knew how upset his brother was, Dean allowed his brother to shadow him.

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By early evening, Sam was barely holding it together.

He watched Dean as much as he was going to get away with, noting his deterioration while their father kept himself out of the way. Sam presumed he was perhaps unable to watch his son succumb, knowing he had asked him to do this, for whenever Dean was within the vicinity, John seemed to find it hard to look directly at him.

Sam hoped with all his heart he was going to call it off, but his father's resolve didn't waver. It was made of steel.

_Much like his heart,_ Sam thought, uncharitably.

Watching his brother hide another shiver as the evening drew on, Sam saw Jim enter the living room, hot water and lemon in hand.

Dean had retreated into the room an hour or so earlier, claiming he had learnt all he wanted to about the Erlking and wasn't going to get any more prepared than he already was. Sam suspected his father's cramped handwriting and obsessive drilling of facts were giving him a headache. He was beginning to struggle with his breathing, the coughs that shook his body were more frequent and the fever which had promised to emerge flared, heating his as yet dry skin.

Sam knew from experience that it would take a while for it to break, to bathe Dean in sweat and dreams. He knew also what it would cost the other boy, unearthing long buried memories and little understood emotions.

The younger brother stepped back; settling on the window seat he half turned away, allowing the pastor room to approach Dean. He lifted tired eyes to the older man, tugging a smile on for his benefit. It wouldn't do if anyone realised Dean wasn't up to par.

Jim lifted the throw from the back of the settee to settle it across Dean's shoulders, silently daring him to shrug it off. Dean sighed, and Sam found the sound of his brother's breath bubbling in his chest disconcerting.

"I'm fine," he announced, including Sam in his gaze. "Dad thinks we'll be ready to go tonight."

Jim handed him the mug, catching Dean's grimace. He hated the taste of hot water and lemon. "You couldn't sweeten it with whiskey?" he suggested hopefully.

"If you're going to go through with the glorified nut job's plan, you'll need a clear head," Jim replied.

"My head's clear," Dean protested, before blinking. "Did you just call my Dad a –"

"You don't have to do this," Jim interrupted and Sam smiled, seeing his brother straighten his shoulders in resolution, a move so typical of him. He seemed to consider everything he did a battle. He had obviously been expecting this. "You don't have to prove anything. Get better; I'm sure you can find a way to stop this thing without risking yourself like this."

"We won't be able to see him. We tried this before, remember?" Dean shook his head. "We can't shoot blindly in a room full of kids."

"Dad did," Sam corrected.

Dean's gaze burned him and Sam snapped his mouth shut, holding up his hands in surrender. Dean turned back to Jim.

"We can't let this thing continue. Way I figure, we've got one chance at this. We know it fled last time and we can't take the risk that we'll miss. If I can see it, I can shoot it. Besides, Dad'll be there." Dean nodded to himself, as if John Winchester's presence was the defining factor.

Sam sighed, wondering when Dean would stop with the hero worship. _The man left you without a word,_ he thought angrily. _He doesn't deserve your loyalty, doesn't deserve your trust or obedience. He doesn't deserve __**you.**_

The pastor nodded thoughtfully. "Sammy too," he commented.

Dean's smile was wide and for a moment Sam saw a glimpse of the boy his brother had been. The boy he should have been for much longer. It made Sam ache inside to see his big brother so young.

"Yeah, Sammy too," he agreed, glancing up at he older man, his eyes shining from a force stronger than the fever. "The family's back together, Jim," he beamed.

Sam felt his heart clench painfully.

His brother was such a simple creature at times; the smallest of things were all his heart wished for.

His family whole and healthy. With him.

Not leaving him alone.

Sam knew that in the end, their father would break Dean's heart. Knew, also, that he, himself, had done so and would do so again.

Sam's insides burned with guilt but he acknowledged he was too selfish to consider his brother in his own plans.

Jim's warm voice drew him from his self analysis. "It's nice to have the house full again."

Dean smiled again, but the next words to leave the kind older man's mouth caused a frown to appear.

"Don't do this. Let us take care of you."

"Who's going to take care of those kids?" Dean demanded. "Damn it, Jim, we've got one shot at this. I'm not backing down from that mother-f-"

"Dean Winchester!" Jim scolded, cutting him off swiftly. He rose stiffly in a sharp motion before worry replaced anger as Dean commenced coughing again. He gently rubbed the younger man's back for a moment.

Leaving, the pastor glanced at Sam. "Is it wrong to want to drug him?"

"It's an impulse I battle daily." Sam replied dryly.

"Still in the room," Dean protested.

"Not for long."

The group glanced at the door, which framed John dramatically. Sam had always suspected he was where Dean got his flamboyant nature from.

"It's time to go."

Dean nodded, looking as if he was steeling himself for the coming movement before standing. "Let's do this thing."

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Sam glanced at his brother as the car cut its way through the night. They were coming up to the place.

Their father had insisted on driving, claiming he wanted to get back behind the Impala's wheel while he could, which automatically relegated Sam to the backseat.

He saw Dean battle not to sink down into his seat, not to hunch his shoulders, wince, stare, ignore or do any other of the hundred little signs that would signal he wasn't in his happy place.

Dean obviously won because other than a small jolting movement that, should anyone care to ask about would be instantly blamed on his Dad's amateur stunt driving, Dean didn't give anything away. Sam thought he saw a gleam of triumph flash in the reflection of an oncoming car's headlights, shining onto his brother's eyes.

Sam, as always, turned to acknowledge the place where his brother's nightmare's resided.

It had taken a long time for him to recognise what Dean had barely escaped while within the building and the younger hunter felt he owed it to his brother to remember the way Dean had been that day, and the days after. Dean might chose to forget, but Sam's guilt vowed not to.

It had taken every ounce of skill Sam possessed concerning his brother to get him to admit what had nearly happened, once the youngest of the Winchesters had finally recognised what he had seen. Dean had eventually opened up, sick and in pain, on a bad hunt, and Sam, knowing he should have been there to comfort the terrified boy back then, knowing he had known and used his youth as an excuse not to understand fully, made a promise not to shy away from the responsibility again.

Sometimes, although the thought often surprised him, Dean needed Sam to face the things he couldn't.

Turning his attention to the man in the driver's seat, Sam was gratified when he caught his father's eyes flicker momentarily towards Dean, his hands gripping the steering wheel marginally tighter. He hadn't forgotten what that place had done to his son, either, it seemed.

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Arriving at the small hospital, John parked in a dark corner of the car park.

All three Winchesters knew the layout of the building well, having visited one another at some point or another over the years within the grey stone walls.

Dean got out of the car, his breath hanging briefly in the chill air. Sam worried at his bottom lip. Dean shouldn't be out in the cold, but, in a long list of things Dean shouldn't be doing, this ranked low, paling in comparison with going up against an Erlking with a long memory and a bad disposition.

Breaking into the building was easy, causing Dean to bump his shoulder into Sam's in a semblance of the usual antic's the boys had got up to during some of their earlier hunts with their father.

Now, just as then, while Sam scowled at his brother, John turned to them with raised eyebrows, obviously waiting for an explanation.

"God, when did you get as stuffy as him?" Dean muttered to his brother, moving back into his own space. There was only so much sharing he was willing to do.

Sam snorted a harsh laugh, finding the idea of being like his Dad obscene. He started to say so until John hushed them.

"We're near the paediatrics ward," he cautioned.

Sam felt a dark presence brush at his mind. "It's here," he relayed, forgetting it wasn't just his brother, used to his strange comments, that was with him.

"Sam?" his Dad queried. "Do you see it?"

The youngest hunter shook his head. "Feel it," he explained tersely, not wanting to get into details.

John frowned, not liking the turn of conversation. He glanced at his older son, needing guidance, perhaps seeking reassurance. If anyone was a meter for Sam, it was his brother. If Dean was calm, relaxed, Sam was fine.

Dean, however, was anything but relaxed. He looked like a cat; stalking its prey, inching closer in that focused unnervingly intense way, halting but not breaking eye contact when the prey in question just made him.

Dean was frowning, his hand gripping his gun against his chest, his movements frozen as if someone had caught his image in a particularly realistic picture.

Sam broke the spell. "Dean?"

Dean nodded slowly and John felt himself breathe again. "I see him, Sammy. Stay behind me. I'm going to try and draw him out."

John decided enough was enough; it was time to remind his children that he was the senior hunter, not to mention the one who'd masterminded this little adventure.

"What's it doing, son?" he muscled his way into the conversation, telling himself it wasn't jealousy that caused his stomach to cramp as his boys startled at his presence. He blamed it Jim's cooking, complaining that he had always found it too damn heavy and that Sam and Dean hadn't become self reliant without him.

Trying to convince himself that he was still needed, that he would always be their father.

"Looking for the next victim." Dean's voice, as always, grounded him. Although raspy and cutting out on some of the syllables, it held no sense of fear, only promised danger.

"It's going to be sorely disappointed," the oldest brother added. He raised his gun.

"Dean!" Sam hissed. "You can't fire into that room."

Dean shot his brother a withering look, taking his eyes off his quarry to devastating effect.

"I know that, Captain Obvious," he began, before the two boys were knocked over by, from John's perspective at least, nothing.

"Boys!" he snapped, turning around irrationally, trying to catch a glimpse, a flicker of what had downed them. "Dean, where is it?"

Dean stared at him in horror, just before the world faded from John Winchester's sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**So, I think I've finally cracked this story … big thanks for the reviews and the patience of those still reading!**

**Of course, I still don't own this, but one problem at a time, right?**

John Winchester's world went dark.

His son's watched him collapse to the floor, remaining still once he hit the tired linoleum.

"Dad!"

Dean moved to his side, launching himself across the floor from the position he had landed in after his own sprawling fall, hands instinctively checking his father's head, neck and airway.

"Dean! Is it still here?" Sam demanded, swiftly joining his brother, glancing uneasily about the apparently empty corridor.

Dean twisted from side to side in an effort to see everywhere. "I think it's gone," he reported. He coughed, pulling himself reluctantly to his feet. "Stay with Dad, I'm gonna hunt that bitch down."

Sam gritted his teeth irritably. "How you gonna do that? It's gone."

"Dude!" Dean protested, smiling wildly. He spread his hands in a 'this is _me_ we're talking about' way. "I think I saw which way it went."

Dean was gone before Sam could protest further and his brother sighed, knowing that letting the Erlking escape was not an option. It could be years before it reappeared again. Dean needed to track it and arguing with him about it was not going to help in any conceivable way.

Sam glanced down as his Dad began to come round. He couldn't help wonder which one of them was going to be more pissed about being stuck with the other.

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Dean cursed soundly to himself.

He had never sounded so loud in the hunt before, but he couldn't stop it as his own lungs betrayed him.

For its part the Erlking either hadn't noticed his pursuit or it simply didn't perceive him as a threat. They were outside now, leaving the hospital grounds and Dean felt a surge of anxiety. He thought he knew where they were headed.

He distracted himself by studying his prey. Although too far away to get a good shot, this was his first clear sight of the creature and he made use of the opportunity afforded to him.

It was supremely ugly, he noticed.

The Erlking had small, twisted horns growing from its brow, leathery skin that seemed sunken and rotted and it reeked of decay. It was tall and thin, like a man starved of nourishment, the shape of its bones clearly visible beneath its tattered garments.

Dean wondered how anyone could even begin to expect this image of death to fulfil its promises.

Shaking his head, he noticed where he followed the Erlking. Just as the young hunter expected, he had been led to the school, half an hour's walk from the hospital. His gut squirmed as he entered the school grounds after the Erlking, his heart raced and his gun felt slippery in his suddenly sweaty hands. This was the first time he had been back to the school since _that_ day.

Dean found himself pausing at the entrance to the building, before mentally giving himself a kick.

_C'mon! _He berated himself. _You can do this, you're not twelve anymore. He's not here and you've got a sodding shot gun, for crying out loud. Its not gonna happen again. Won't happen, won't happen,_ _**won't**__ happen._

He paused momentarily while he took a deep breath.

_Dad promised._

Still, his mouth was dry as his stomach rebelled against the small amount of dinner he had forced down and Dean seriously thought he was going to heave until his sharp ears picked up the sound of someone else's distress. For a wild moment he thought his old Coach was hurting someone else, until his brain re-engaged.

Dean's own fright was forgotten as he ran down the once familiar corridors, following the sharp cries of a small child. As he drew closer, he separated the noise into two voices. They seemed to be in the old basement of the school, the boiler room.

Dean had snuck into the out of bounds area often enough during his time at the school, seeking his own little five minutes of quiet, to know how to jimmy the rusty lock, surprised they hadn't bothered to replace it after all those years.

The hunter cautiously crept down the stairs, the familiar sounds of the room competing with the cries of the children. It was dark in the room and he pulled out his torch, shining it in the direction of the kids.

They stopped crying the moment the beam clicked on. Dean quickly scanned the room, but for the moment at least, they were alone. Dean worried where the Erlking was, while he crouched in front of the children.

The boy was about seven or eight, the pallor in his tired face competing with the redness surrounding his puffy eyes. Tear tracks shone in the bright beam of the torch, but he reached out and pulled the other child, a girl of four or five, closer to him.

Dean noticed she too was showing signs of sickness, her breathing hitched in a badly congested chest, her skin was also too pale and her tears still ran.

Dean put the torch on the ground, illuminating both himself and the kids, but was unwilling to let go of the gun. He stretched his free hand out in what he hoped was a non-threatening manner, cursing his bad luck. Sam was always better at comforting frightened kids and he was back at the hospital.

Both children watched his hand, shrinking back a little.

"We have to get out of here before that thing comes back," Dean told them, retrieving his hand to cough into his arm, deciding to take the short, simple route with them. "Can you stand?"

"Who are you?" the little boy asked, his voice a whisper, his eyes wide.

Dean had a momentary flashback to Sammy at that age, all questions and wonder.

"My name's Dean," he replied. "I've come to take you back to your parents."

The girl shook her head. Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse. "Mummy and Daddy are on the way. The nice man said so."

"We have to stay here," the boy explained. "Or they'll miss us."

Dean frowned. "They sent me to get you," he lied.

"He was getting them," the girl told him stubbornly.

The boy again felt he should clarify. "He said to wait or we wouldn't see them again. He promised."

Dean realised what had happened. "He promised, huh?" he sighed. To the kids, the Erlking most likely appeared like a Prince; granting wishes and dreams so long as they stayed where they were.

The girl nodded. "He's a nice man."

"I'm nicer," Dean tried.

Both kids watched him expectantly and the hunter understood that they were waiting for him to prove it. He ran his hand through his hair, sighing again, causing another cough to erupt from deep within his slowly filling lungs.

"I wouldn't take you from your parents," he began, remembering how Sammy had loved lists as proof of what Dean was telling him. "I wouldn't leave you alone in a basement, I wouldn't stop you from getting help from the hospital and," he added, wiping the dampness from the girls face, "I wouldn't want you to cry."

He could sense them wavering.

"He's a nice man," the girl said softly, as more tears leaked from her eyes. Dean again brushed them away, shaking his head.

"He only seems that way. But here we are in a cold, damp basement when you should be in a warm bed getting better with your parents and doctors by your side."

Dean reached out to gather the girl into his free arm, scooping her up the way he had Sam so many times, but when she screamed in pain he quickly set her back against the boy.

The children were still bound by the promises of the Erlking and judging from the looks of their faces, his stunt hadn't helped his cause. The girl shrank from him, hiding her face in the boy's side. Glaring at Dean, he tightened his hold on her.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

Dean tried to make his face look contrite instead of angry. It wouldn't do to let his frustration at himself appear as irritation at the kids. "Do you believe in magic?" he asked instead.

The girl turned to look at him again, a small smile playing on the corners of her mouth and Dean knew she did, marvelling at the forgiving heart of a child.

The boy, however, tilted his head to the side, reminding the hunter sharply of his

brother again. He hoped the pain didn't show on his face. He continued on in a rush.

"The man appears to you as a good person to gain your trust. He makes you promises to make you like him. I bet he promised all sorts of nice things to get you to come with him down here."

"He said he had puppies," the girl breathed.

"I don't see any here," Dean commented carefully, making a big show of looking around the basement. He shivered. God, it was so cold. He coughed again.

The girl reached out slowly. "Are you poorly too?" she asked in her awful, rasping voice.

Dean nodded. "It's how I can see the man. I followed him here to get you two back." It wasn't strictly true, but it was good enough. Now he had found them, he wasn't leaving without them.

"Is that the magic?" the boy inquired.

"Some of it," Dean agreed. "Uh, the other part is that if you believe his promises, you can't come with me. If you believe my promises, you can."

"He promised my Mummy and Daddy," the little girl whimpered, looking around her.

"Mine too," the boy added. A tremble touched his bottom lip and Dean wished he could soothe away the hurt and fear as he had been able to when Sammy had been small.

The kids had been here a while, from the state of things. The Erlking had been prowling around the hospital again when he had found it, after all.

Dean smiled sadly. "That was a while ago, huh?"

The boy rubbed tiredly at his eyes with his free hand. "I guess," he admitted.

"That's twice he lied, then," Dean pointed out. "No puppies and no parents."

The girl glanced at the boy, who nodded slowly, working things through. Dean very slowly reached out for the girl again, who flinched.

"It's okay," he soothed. "It won't hurt if you believe. It's magic."

The girl smiled.

"I'm Emma," she said shyly and Dean felt a smile tug at his own lips.

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John came round the way he moved - quickly and quietly.

Sam sat back, allowing his Dad space. "You okay?" he asked.

John made a non-committal grunt, reaching up to tenderly touch the back of his head. "That was unpleasant," he commented, looking up and down the corridors.

Sam found himself sighing for the umpteenth time._ Ladies and gentlemen, I give you John Winchester; master of the understatement._

"Where's your brother?"

"He went after the Erlking."

"Why the hell didn't you go with him?" John demanded. "Damn it Sam, you know better than that!"

Sam gritted his teeth for what felt like the twentieth time that day. He wondered if he'd have any molars left by the end of the hunt, the rate he was wearing them down. A headache began to bloom behind his eyes.

"What did you expect, Dad? You want us to leave you here, not knowing what that thing had done to you? Dean wouldn't have stood for that!"

"Dean's not exactly thinking straight at the moment," his father growled. "And he shouldn't be on his own on this one."

"He was worried about you, you stubborn git!"

Sam felt like beating his head against a wall. It might help with the headache, if not getting through to his Dad.

"We both were," he amended in a quieter tone, knowing no matter how much his Dad infuriated him, it was true. His heart had damn near stopped when John had collapsed.

John regarded his youngest silently and nodded to show he understood. Had one of the boys taken a dive like he had, he would have wanted to check on him. Would probably have sent Dean off to follow the Erlking too, if it had been Sam.

He watched as his son pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes as if in pain. Panic flared in John's chest, warring with impatience to begin the search for Dean.

"Sammy?"

"Ugh, headache," the young man replied, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. Instantly he was transported into a vision, the like of which he hadn't seen before.

Instead of a series of images and feelings, usually clear-cut and easy to decipher, he found his sight blurred, fogged by an unnatural, blinding white. Slowly a small figure emerged from the light, and Sam gratefully focused upon it, his retinas awash with pain from the sightless stimuli.

The figure, he realised, was a child, nearly a teen. Once he adjusted to the harsh glare reflected around him, Sam's breath caught in his throat. The pre-teen was Dean. Dean as he had been _that_ day.

The boy, Dean, looked straight at him, apparently able to see Sam as clearly as the young man could see him.

"Dean?" Sam breathed. "What's going on?"

Dean frowned, stepping back, wrapping his arms protectively around his small frame. He glanced around uneasily. "Who are you?"

"Dean, it's me," Sam moved forward, stretching his hand out in an effort to touch his brother.

Dean shied away from him.

"I don't like this place," he announced. "I don't want to be here."

Sam attempted a smile. "No, it's a bit, er, odd, isn't it?"

Dean looked around again, seemingly having no trouble in the persistent glare. "I don't want to be here!"

The sudden shout surprised Sam. "Sorry, not much I can do about that."

"Dad promised! He said I wouldn't have to come back, he_ promised_."

Sam's heart broke at the fear evident at in the boy's voice, at the pain in his stance. His brother was shirtless, clad only in tracksuit bottoms and as he watched in horrified fascination, bruises began to appear across Dean's skin.

Sam shivered involuntarily as an inkling of an idea whispered across his mind, as cold as a ghost's light non-breath on his skin.

He inched closer to the child. "Dean? Where are we?"

His brother shot an accusative look his way. "You know where we are."

Sam blinked as something slapped his cheek. He blinked again, opening his eyes to the corridor of the hospital. His Dad loomed over him, concern and a touch of fear aging his tired face.

"You okay, Sammy?"

John help his son sit up again, worried when Sam tried to stand. His father hovered close by, hand out to steady him if need be.

"Sam?" he tried again.

"Yeah, er, yeah," Sam muttered, distractedly. "I'm fine, just a … thing."

One of John's eyebrow's rose. "A thing?"

"I think I know where Dean went," Sam said hurriedly, not in the mood to explain to his father just yet. "I think he's at the school."

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Dean smiled back at Emma, turning on the patented Winchester charm. He hoped the boy, perhaps a little less seduced by the idea of magic, would become easier to convince now his little friend had decided to believe.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked, as yet making no move to take Emma from the boy's side.

"Ben," he supplied, hesitantly.

Dean nodded, as if in encouragement. "I bet you've been taking good care of Emma, right, Ben?"

The boy glanced at his companion, happy to be pressed to his side. "She's littler," he explained earnestly. "She kinda reminds me of my sister."

"You've done good, kiddo," Dean told him sincerely. "But I'm here now, I'm gonna look after the both of you." Dean paused, the better to convince the child. "But only if you let me, Ben."

Ben glanced once more at the girl before returning his eyes to Deans'. Slowly he nodded.

Dean grinned, fighting his own weariness as he took Emma in his arms, standing slowly and holding a hand out to Ben. "Then let's get you two back where you belong."

The trio made their way quietly through the darkened school. Dean expected the Erlking to make an appearance at any moment; his anticipation tensing his muscles, his nerves strung taught and his movements tight.

He was beginning to feel light headed as he shifted an almost asleep Emma in his one armed grip; the girl perched on his forearm, her little arms around his neck and her head resting on his shoulder. His shot gun was clutched ready in his hand beneath her, the other occupied by Ben's firm grasp.

He held his breath, pausing the moment he heard movement coming towards his little group. Not letting go of the boy, Dean moved so he stood shielding Ben, raising his gun slowly.

He felt Ben's fingers tighten around his own. Emma lifted her head from his shoulder, her eyes wide with fear and her breathing harsh in Dean's ear.

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John's ears strained to pick up the sounds of breathing in the silent corridors of the night smothered school. Pausing only momentarily, he reasoned if he could hear it, it wasn't the Erlking.

He knew it to be his son, in the same way he could have identified a stranger standing between his children without the aid of sight, smell or touch.

John Winchester freely admitted he wasn't the best father he knew; had made the wrong choices in many situations and hurt his boys in ways no parent would consider,

but he loved his sons and knew beyond doubt when a missing boy was nearby.

He knew beyond doubt the boy in question was suffering, struggling. One more harsh decision in a long line of impossible choices.

John also knew his son would know someone, or something, was coming towards him. He very slowly and very carefully peered around the corner.

The sight that met his eyes burned into his memory instantly. His beautiful, brilliant eldest son stood in a setting that would have warmed any other father's heart, but only pained his.

Dean was positioned in a protective stance, a small boy peering around his thigh, tiny hands gripping the fabric of his denims and his own left hand. A younger child, a girl, was sat on his right hip, hands braced against his chest in an effort to keep her body twisted in a way to see what Dean was trying to shield her from.

The way both children pressed into him, seeking reassurance from Dean's strong presence, brought a lump to John's throat.

Sam caught his Dad's eye. John stared back for a tense heartbeat, then glanced away, as if ashamed of himself.

His Dean was a natural father, had filled the role for Sammy with ease when his own Dad hadn't been able to bring himself to do it for either boy. John wondered if his son would ever hold his own child in his nurturing hands and realised the answer was likely to be in the negative. Dean wouldn't risk bringing a child into the world that had hurt him so bad, not knowing what lived within it.

The knowledge cut at John.

He welcomed the pain as well deserved punishment.

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Dean could have wept with relief when his Dad emerged cautiously around the corner, Sam stepping in his shadow.

He smiled at his family, shaking his head slightly to clear his swimming vision. Looking back at them, the smile slipped, replaced by what Sam and their Dad recognised as his business face.

"Down!" he bellowed as forcibly as he could and squeezed the trigger, trusting the other's instincts to follow his directions.

Sure enough John and Sam dropped to their stomachs as the bullets sped overhead, shattering somewhere behind them. Sam turned in time to watch the spectacular sight of the copper bottomed, glass tipped bullets his Dad had dreamed up exploding against what he assumed was the Erlking. The filler of holy water splashed across what he imagined was its body, momentarily outlining its shape.

"God damn it!" Dean snarled, starting forward, coughing. "I hit that son of a - "

"Dean!" Sam warned with a sharp glance at the kids.

His brother growled in annoyance. "I hit it full in the chest!"

"It was screaming," the girl child in his embrace remarked, her hands covering her ears. "You were loud," she added, glaring at Dean as the other Winchesters got to their feet.

"Sorry kiddo," Dean groused, thrusting her into Sam's surprised arms. "Take them back to the hospital," he demanded, placing the boy's hand into his brother's.

Ben tried backing off, returning to Dean's side. "You said _you_ were going to take us."

Dean's pale face creased in concern. "I know I did, Ben, but this is my brother, Sammy. He can't see the man, so I have to go after him."

"_Why?_"

"Because that's what I do. You'll be safe with Sammy, I have to go."

Ben grabbed onto his arm, shaking his head.

Dean, knowing his brother was watching with an amused expression, dropped to his knees, coughing harshly. "Ben, it's okay, I promise. I'll come see you later, alright? I will."

Ben glanced at Sam, before turning back to Dean. "You really promise?"

Dean nodded. "I really promise."

Ben sighed, triggering his own cough and John saw his eldest son's face flicker with concern. "You need to get back into the hospital, kiddo."

John watched as the boy nodded, stepping away and returning to Sam's side.

It surprised him the way Dean interacted with both children; obviously having formed a strong bond with them in the relatively short time he had known them. It caused a pang of longing to trip his hearts rhythm, seeing how naturally Dean reacted to the children's presence.

John doubted he would ever forget the sight of his usually immature firstborn standing before him with a baby in his arms, a child by his side. The sight had taken his breath, had taken his ability to process rational thought as his mind screamed in a relentless echo.

'This is right. This is Dean.'

John noticed also that Sam seemed more amused than surprised. It was something he might ask the boys about at a later time.

For now, the hunter forced himself back to the forefront of his warring emotions.

"Dean."

It was a command, of that there was no doubt, which Dean reacted to without hesitation. Standing, he nodded and moved silently down the corridors, searching for the Erlking.

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Dean caught the foul odour he had come to associate with the Erlking doubling back to its lair; like any animal in pain it sought the comfort of familiar ground, somewhere it felt safe.

Dean planned to rid it of that notion as soon as he could.

John seconded his son, keeping his eyes open for any sign of the creature, even though he knew he couldn't see, or even smell, it.

His son led him into the basement slowly and cautiously, moving with a fluid grace even while painfully unwell.

He clicked his torch on once more, scanning the area with a professional's ease. John felt himself fill with paternal pride. He had taught well, but his boys had learnt to an amazing degree.

Dean was frowning. "It's got to be here," he muttered, rubbing at his chest as a harsh cough tore from him.

"Dean?"

John reached out for his boy, frowning at the heat he encountered.

"I'm alright," the younger hunter assured him in a tired sigh. John didn't miss the sharp crackle of the phlegm popping in his child's lungs as the breath pushed past it.

He was about to suggest the possibility of the Erlking fleeing as Dean's balance faltered, causing the older man to step closer to wrap an arm around him in support, when Dean looked up to the top of the stairs.

"Oh, crap," he moaned. "He's back."

John glanced up, seeing nothing as usual.

Dean lent into his father's embrace without realising it, his muscles demanding he rest, screaming for more oxygen than he was able to supply. He watched, his breathing fast and abrasive, as the image he had always seen as the Erlking flickered into a striking human man.

Dean groaned.

"Dude, if you're planning on using your appearance to influence me, you're way off the mark."

John found it more than a little unnerving watching his son have a one sided conversation, unable to keep pace with it himself.

The Erlking, Dean saw, was smiling.

"You're in pain," it murmured. "I can feel your suffering."

"Super."

"I can make it better, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm convinced. Go on, offer me what I want," Dean taunted, simply unable to help himself.

"You long to finish your hunt, boy," the creature, Dean refused to think of it as a man, as a 'he', smiled serenely.

Dean felt his breath sigh through him once more. It certainly knew its business, he'd have to give it that.

"I can end your frantic chase," it continued. "I could bring your father the peace he craves, I could send your brother back to his beloved normalcy."

The Erlking descended the stairs. Dean had long since forgotten to breathe, his eyes locked with that of the creature, wide and hopeful.

"Son?"

His father's anxious voice didn't register on his consciousness. Dean's attention was captured by the mesmerizing, hypnotic quality of the thing's soothing voice.

It drew closer to the immobile Winchesters.

"I know you hurt, child," the Erlking sympathised. "I know you're tired. It's hard, this constant battle. It's never ending; you'll never be free until the demon is gone. I can end it, boy. I can heal your family."

Dean felt his eyes close as emotions welled within him, battling inside to come to the forefront; emotions he hadn't let surface in years. Opening his eyes, his vision swam with unshed tears.

It was right, he _was_ tired.

He was tired of hurting, of fighting, of struggling day after day to keep his little family intact.

"What are you offering?" he whispered.

"I offer you freedom."


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning, a few of the more juicer swear words included.**

John Winchester was scared.

He was a no-nonsense, shoot-first-and-damn-the-consequences sort of man who didn't have time to entertain fear, yet at this very moment, he couldn't honestly tell if not being a part of whatever was going on or the expression on his boy's face frightened him more.

On a deeply basic level he understood he was something of a control freak. It was a necessity born out of a fierce desire to protect what remained of his family and therefore not being privy to what his son was experiencing left him - a man simply unable to understand when destiny didn't sit in his own two hands - in a sudden, sharp freefall.

John latched onto the one tangible constant he could see and hear and wrapped an arm around his son's chest, pulling him backwards off his feet, off his own feet too and against his own body. He hoped to hell, the one place that John truly believed in, that it would pull Dean out of his trance-like state.

Dean, for his part, had been struck immobile by the Erlking's offer. As some part of his brain reasoned it would be stupid to entertain the thought, most of him, the part overruled by his heart, wondered if it would be possible.

To give his father the chance to actually rest; to catch up with friends he had left by the wayside in his all consuming quest to end the evil that had plundered his family, to sit and grow old gracefully, to give him a reason to laugh and share his life with Sammy without having to worry if the hunt would end the both of them – Dean was finding it a hard deal to walk away from.

And Sammy. He could go back to Stanford, could go anywhere he wanted without fear of disappointing Dad, could retire from the hunt also and could find a common ground with John that didn't involve corpses and monsters. Sam could go back to being the normal, model citizen he aspired to. The nightmares would end too, Dean was somehow sure of.

The beauty of the plan was its simplicity. All it would take was a little sacrifice on his part; a small moment of time in which the only thing he would have to endure was death. Dean doubted it would be hard. Just a few more beats of his aching heart and his family would be salvaged. Hadn't he vowed, after all, on many dark and dangerous nights to die for them?

Unable to speak, Dean began to lift his head to nod his acceptance when he felt himself roughly pulled back, falling and stumbling against something warm and solid.

"Dean!"

His father's voice sounded unnaturally loud in his ear. Dean flinched, breaking the hold the Erlking had on him. It flickered to its uglier appearance briefly, before changing, with a smile, to the more handsome alternative.

"Rest, boy," it soothed. "Allow me to take the burden."

John had been momentarily relieved when Dean's eyes had focused again, but now felt fear wrap slowly around his mind, like fog spreading lazily across a late afternoon meadow.

"Dean!"

He shook the boy again, hard enough to cause the dream in his son's mind to evaporate, or at least retreat. John could feel the heat radiating from his fevered body through his own layers of clothing.

"Dean! I don't know what that son of a bitch is promising you, but understand me when I saw it's not worth it."

Through the alluring images that had captured his attention, Dean faintly heard his Dad's voice, urgently begging him to listen.

"You will die if you follow through with this!" John hissed in his son's ear. "You may think you're saving me and your brother, but I'm ordering you not to give in."

"It would be so easy," the Erlking breathed, venturing closer, perhaps having heard the older Winchester and feeling the need to press its advantage. "Just accept. You won't be a burden to them anymore."

John could almost _feel_ Dean thinking. He jostled him again. "No! Don't you leave me! Not yet, Dean, I need you! Sammy needs you."

It was a low blow, but nothing pulled Dean to order like the thought of his little brother.

"I don't know what it's promising, but I'm guessing it's the Demon's head on a plate," John continued hurriedly, hoping his boy was taking his words in. All would be lost if Dean even thought his acceptance. "Even if we could end everything we've worked for tonight, it wouldn't be worth it. You'd be dead and Sam would be alone."

John sensed Dean coming back to him. He took a deep breath and hammered his closing argument home. "You can't leave your brother, Dean. Sam needs you to be alive."

Dean blinked. He lifted his head to the top of the basement stairs, down which the Erlking had glided during John's impassioned pleas. "Sammy?"

John jumped when his youngest answered. He wondered how long the boy had been there, listening.

"It's lying, Dean!" he pleaded. "It always lies, remember? Don't do this; don't sacrifice yourself for an empty promise."

In reply, Dean lifted the shot gun he carried and blasted two rounds swiftly.

"I don't accept," he said strongly, although his voice was as sharp as the shards of glass that he couldn't remember swallowing.

The bullets, like before, shattered against the creature, which screamed in agony once more, fleeing past Sam who had been running down the stairs.

"I felt that!" the youngest Winchester exclaimed, rubbing at his shoulder where the Erlking had brushed in its hurry. "It's not dead, is it?"

"Not yet." Dean smiled serenely and twisted to see his father.

The spell of the Erlking may have been broken, but the haunted expression had yet to flee Dean's eyes. John almost looked away, cut beyond imagining by the emotions, but he wasn't a man prone to running. He steeled himself to continue to hold his boy's gaze. He could only imagine what the creature had promised.

Death would come disguised as peace for Dean, while he and Sam would be granted respite, a chance to do all that they currently sacrificed.

"I think the holy water is weakening it. Couple more rounds and it'll be done," Dean stated, his confidence forced, the 'Oh-God-I-could-haves' running in circles through his mind.

"I think we need to pull out the big guns," John rumbled, not letting go of Dean and ignoring the way Sam was watching him carefully, as if he couldn't be trusted with the oldest brother.

Dean, for his part, was apparently content to lean against him, for the moment at least, and John was reminded of a time when he had sought the comfort his father's presence, brought by pressing up close as they relaxed in front of the telly, a sleeping baby resting in John's arms.

Then Dean coughed harshly, pulling away to bend slightly, the back of his wrist covering his mouth. John, unable to watch, knowing he had asked Dean to become this bad, glanced at his other child.

"Call Jim. We'll flood the school in holy water if we have to."

John glanced back at Dean as Sam pulled out his phone. He was wondering if a trip back to hospital would be the best thing for him. They could set off the school's sprinkler systems; drown the bastard while Dean received the medication he obviously needed.

Dean had apparently learned to read minds; as he looked up and caught his father's worried eyes he wrenched a smile on his face. "I'm fine. I want to finish this."

Sam snorted indelicately. Dean swung his gaze to his brother, about to insist little brother shut his hole, when his eyes hardened, his gun lifted and his brothers name formed on his lips.

For the second time that night, Sam hit the deck, spreading himself flat as a bullet once more winged its way over his head. He felt the force that he'd come to recognise as the Erlking move past him.

Despite the fact that Dean's shots had all been on target – a little thing like a fever and troubled lungs were not going to affect his aim – the creature had merely been weakened.

Using the same power it had when the family had first come across it hours ago; the Erlking took another shot at the Winchesters. From his prone positions, Dean prepared himself for the blow, forgetting his Dad couldn't see the creature.

The men weren't the intended target, however, at least not initially.

Sam watched, still stretched flat on the floor, as the large, heavy pipes above their heads took the brunt of the attack, braking and falling with a resounding crash, landing where his family had been sat. He heard the simultaneous cries of pain as huge clouds of dust rose in the air.

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John's eyes lifted heavenwards as he heard the pipes break; liberated from the ceiling. In crystal clarity he saw them begin to fall, saw large chunks of cement rip free from the roof as cracks ran deep through the ancient mortar.

He turned to shout a warning to Dean, too late as one of the pipes hit his son, the force of the impact causing Dean to exhale violently, strings of red phlegm expelled from his mouth as the metal crushed his chest, most like breaking ribs and pressuring already weakened lungs. He reached out to Dean before pain blinded him.

He opened his eyes to find his world obscured by dust; his lungs burnt with it, his chest was tight and his eyes stung. His left knee screamed in agony, causing him to groan softly.

He was lying beneath a pile of rubble, held up by a criss-crossing of fallen pipes and blocks of cement as big as Jim's TV.

The tortured breathing to his right grounded him as sure as a bucket of ice water thrown over his head.

"Dean!" he gasped, coughing as the dust caught on his dry throat, coated his airways.

His son was lying still, but he was conscious. John was unsure if that was a mercy or not. His eyes were wide open, as was his blood stained mouth. Thick, sticky strands clung to his pale cheek and lips. He was trying to pant, but he couldn't seem to draw breath without triggering a weak cough.

While John wasn't far from the younger hunter, trying to move closer seemed to take an eternity, his injured leg protesting with every movement. He clamped his teeth tightly together, determined to reach Dean as quickly as possibly. He didn't have the luxury of time; of that John was certain.

He called his name again as he made it to the younger man's side. "Calm down, son, you've got to calm down."

Dean turned his panic filled eyes on him, still doing his fish out of water impersonation. As ever, his desperate inhale caused his weakened exhale to choke him.

John ran his fingers along the large pipe pinning his child, his eyes going further. He reasoned nothing was resting on it and it was safe to move.

"I'm going to get this off you, Dean. It's going to hurt, but you'll be able to breathe again."

Without waiting for a response, or even giving the boy a chance to prepare himself, John sent out a swift prayer he wasn't going to cause more damage and put his shoulder to the metal.

It was a heavy bastard of a fucker and John heard himself let out a long drawn out shout in the cramped space. Finally, though, the pipe moved, rolling off his son's body.

Exhausted and panting himself, John's attention returned to his boy.

Dean was making a strange, mewling sound of obvious pain, his hands at his damaged chest, but his breathing attempts hadn't improved, hadn't changed except to get faster.

John gripped his son's wrist, lifting it from the side of Dean's torso that had suffered the worst of the injuries. He could feel the pulse weakly racing under his fingers and raised his eyes to meet Dean's.

The sea-green orbs were rolling wildly, full-blown panic in process. John frowned, icy uncertainty chasing the warmth in his veins. Dean wasn't known for panicking. In fact, seasoned hunters had admitted, after a few too many shots, to feeling somewhat safer with the steady nerves of Dean Winchester on their side. He was his Daddy's son, after all.

Dean, however, had lost every shred of control now. He failed feebly, his coughing rapid and weak, his eyes imploring his father to help.

John shot straight into medic-mode, adrenaline allowing him the steady hand he knew he would pay for later as the chemical took its toll. For now, though, he welcomed it as he checked Dean's airways, something he berated himself silently for not doing in the first place. He had thought the pipe had been impeding Dean's breathing.

His son, half lost to fear, was trying to fight him, as John tilted his head and attempted to look down his throat in the poor light. The position made Dean feel vulnerable and it hadn't helped him take in any air.

"Damn it, Dean," John cursed as a stray hand knocked into his jaw. "You need to stay still, I'm trying to help." _I think I can help._

Dean shut his bloodshot eyes, attempting to obey the command, the soldier in him ready to forget what his own body was reporting to him in the face of what was unmistakeably an order.

John remembered a frustrated Sam once claiming that if Dean caught on fire and was ordered not to move, he'd die believing his Dad was only doing what was best for him.

"I have to clear your airway," John explained, ignoring the 'Duh' looked Dean shot him which could only have been learned from Sam. John idly wondered if it'd been such a good idea to leave the boys alone for so long. "I'm going to put my fingers down your throat. Understand?"

Dean tensed, held himself as still as he could while the cough shook his body. John took that as assent and pushed two fingers into his son's mouth.

He soon felt the obstruction and curled his fingers, preying he wouldn't push it further down where he couldn't reach it. He could feel the slippery mess shifting as he scooped it up, out of his son's throat.

As soon as his hand was free, Dean drew in an agonised breath. Although he coughed afterwards, this time he succeeded in bringing up the remnants that John's searching fingers had missed. He continued to suck in the air, groaning as the motions jostled his broken ribs.

John had to look away as Dean taught himself to breath once more. He studied his hands, trembling as the rush of adrenaline left his system. Sticky blood coloured sputum shone on his fingers and John forced himself to remain calm.

He glanced back to his boy. Dean seemed somewhat calmer, a little more alert, but still weakly coughing.

"Feel better?" John asked, running his gore free hand through the short blond hair.

Dean closed his eyes, nodding.

"You alright?"

John smiled humourlessly. His son had been suffocating before his eyes, he was far from alright.

"I'm fine, son," he soothed.

Dean's eyes opened and he nodded again, accepting the lie as willingly as his Dad told it. John cleared his throat.

"We need to work out a way to get out of this," he observed.

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Sam couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him.

His father and brother had just disappeared in a rumble of falling metal and concrete, a cloud of dust had taken them from his sight at the last instant and as it cleared, he thought it very unlikely he would see them alive again.

He sprang to his feet, rushing to the colossal mountain shouting for his family. He frantically began to pull chunks of mortar from one side of it, before remembering his phone. He hit speed dial, cradling it between his ear and shoulder, continuing to prise heavy lumps of debris out of his way.

"Sam?"

The familiar sound of the Pastor voice brought a lump to the young man's throat.

"Jim! I need you, we're at the school!" he babbled frantically.

"The school? I thought you were at the hospital? What happened?"

"The ceiling collapsed, the Erlking's still here somewhere, Dean and Dad are trapped, or dead, I don't know-"

Sam broke off with a shaky gasp.

"I'll be there shortly, son, just calm down. I'm sure John and your brother are fine. We'll fix this, I promise."

They hung up, Sam smiling without pleasure. He had always believed whatever the older man had told him as a child, but it was something he had to take with a pinch of salt in the face of the overwhelming evidence before him.

He doubted the man would be able to fix this the way he had when Dean and he had argued as children.

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John gripped his son's hand.

Dean's fever was worsening and his mind was wandering in a way that made his father uneasy. John was ill-equipped to deal with the emotional torture his son was throwing his way. Added to this was the disconcerting way Dean's ribs fluttered as he drew each breath.

"Remember that time I broke two ribs in Oregon?"

Dean's voice was a dry rasp; John believed if he put a lit match near the younger hunters throat, it'd catch like grass on the Serengeti in the middle of the dry spell.

"Yeah, Dean, I remember."

John had found him unconscious with a rather large raw head about to rip his head from his shoulders. The image still had the power to wake John at night.

"This hurts worse," Dean laughed a poor imitation of his usual robust sound. Blood flecked on his lips, causing the vice that currently held John's heart to tighten.

John found himself at a loss, unable to comfort his child.

As was usual, Dean took up the slack.

"Hey, it's okay. I mean, it's not as if we couldn't have seen this coming."

John was unsure whether the fact Dean was more coherent now should be a cause for concern or celebration. "You prepared for this scenario?" he asked instead, striving for levity.

Dean groaned softly in pain. "Not … quite this … particular version," he admitted, arching his back slightly. "Fuck! But, you know … death in general."

John didn't want to go there. Not with his son, not with either of them. He'd lost enough people, had this same conversation with friends and comrades when the dark humour had fled, had penned his own will when the boys had been small. He couldn't face doing this with Dean.

"Son," he breathed, blinking rapidly. "Don't."

Dean turned his expressive eyes to him.

"You have to look after Sammy," he said, seriousness deepening his voice. "Make sure he's alright. He's not good with grief."

"Dean," once more John attempted to forestall the impending conversation.

"No, he's prone to guilt," Dean replied earnestly, and John could see the red stain on his teeth. "And he's going to need you."

Again the younger man groaned in pain, his breaths coming faster now.

"Do you think … mum'll be there?"

John jumped at the sudden swerve in conversation.

"What?"

"Waiting for me? I always got the feeling … she was waiting for me."

John licked his lips. He and Dean had had a few brief conversations shortly after the fire, or at least, John had attempted to explain to a small child just where mum had gone to. It hadn't gone particularly well.

"Dean," he began, unsure what he was going to follow that stellar opener with.

"You said she'd gone to a better place," Dean said, a hint of accusation in his worn voice. "I didn't know what you were saying; I thought with _us_ was the best place she could be."

John frowned at his son, unable to translate what the boy was telling him. "I tried to make it easier, Dean," he confessed.

Dean appeared not to hear him. He drew another shaky breath, his eyes closed for the moment. "I realised eventually what you meant, though. So I accepted what you told me."

"You never let me know you'd accepted it," John smiled, to take the sting out of the words. For months he would find his son sat on the front step of whatever motel or rental they were staying in.

Dean opened his eyes again. "I was waiting, Dad."

"I know," John sighed. "I tried to explain that your mother was gone, but you just wouldn't listen."

"I listened," Dean argued; his wide eyes intense, as if trying to communicate all he couldn't put into words.

Unable to stand looking into the soul of his hurting child, John watched the pink bubbles form and burst on his lips.

"You didn't, Dad."

John swallowed upon hearing the cutting words. He felt he was floundering; struggling to stay afloat as he was battered by wave after wave of confusion, pulled under by emotions that had rarely shone at the surface.

"Dean," he tried again, "you didn't speak for several months. You were mute; nothing I did or said made any difference. I couldn't listen; there were no words."

"I needed you to listen."

From the sound of his voice, it was clear Dean was losing his battle to stay in the present. John didn't understand what his son was desperately trying to make clear to him, until Dean spoke once more.

"I wasn't waiting for mum to come back. I was waiting for _you._"

John opened his mouth, but was unable to find the right thing to say. Like so often when Dean differed from the normal routine; John found himself off balance and adrift with no anchor.

He was spared a reply as Dean once more coughed, weaker than before and with very little effect. He slowly drew in a breath, the gurgling sound unnerving. John gripped his hand tighter, suddenly fearfully afraid. What he had felt before paled in comparison to this new agony.

John Winchester had heard the sound very few times, but it was one that haunted his dreams.

It was the last breath of a dying man.


	6. Chapter 6

**Whew, finished at last. Thanks for your patience waiting for this last chapter, hope it's worth it!**

**Thanks to everybody who left a review, your support was invaluable.**

Sam's hands were shaking, bleeding, raw.

The rest of his body went ignored; his mind shut down, having abandoned him in the terrifying moments during which his family had vanished from his sight. His hands were the only things he felt, only things he saw, the only things that mattered.

He didn't know he knelt in water, running from the burst pipe, he didn't know the basement door opened and he didn't know a figure descended the stairs in the near dark.

He almost shouted out in fright when a familiar hand gripped his shoulder. He spun around, finding himself face to face with the Pastor.

"Jim!" he gasped, weakly gripping the older man's wrist.

The Pastor, his face pale with shock and despair, shook his arm out of Sam's grasp and set to clearing the rubble.

"I was already on my way to the hospital when you called," he explained as Sam fell in beside him. "Never did like sitting at home waiting while you boys worked."

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John listened to his son's slow indrawn breath, holding his own, preying for an exhale.

_Please. Please, I can't bury my son. I go first, that's the deal, breathe, Dean, breathe. Please baby, just keep breathing._

After an agonising half century Dean let go that awful breath, the sweetest sound of John's existence and the father blew out his own burst at his child's continued existence.

The painful process began again, the air bubbling, gurgling, dying in Dean's ruined lungs. Once more John went through his mantra, _Please. Please, I can't bury my son … _not realising this time he whispered the words aloud.

A sob escaped him as the exhale shakily followed.

"That's it Dean," he encouraged brokenly.

He waited for the next inhale.

"Do it again," John commanded. "Do it for me, Dean. Do it again."

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They had been silent while they worked, for nearly half an hour.

It surprised Sam when a voice shattered the trance he operated in.

"It was easier when you were young," Jim murmured, hefting a large lump out of the way. Sam could see a tear freely making its way down his cheek. "Waiting for John to return, I could focus on you, on Dean. He could protect you from anything, Sammy."

Sam returned to the task at hand, couldn't look at the other man. While he knew the he was suffering, he couldn't focus on any more pain. "Jim," he began softly, never slowing his efforts.

"I liked to think I could protect _him_, while his attention was on you. When he wouldn't notice my help."

"Jim," Sam repeated, stronger this time.

"It was the only time he ever allowed me to look after him," the Pastor whispered brokenly.

"He's not dead!" Sam snapped loudly, turning sharply back to him.

The other man blinked at him in shock. "Sam, I-"

"Don't say it; don't talk about him like he's dead!"

Jim stared for half a heart beat before nodding. "No, he's not."

The men bent back to their work.

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John's world consisted of the unbearable wait between the motions of Dean's breathing.

It was filled with his fervent encouragement, his terror that this was the last breath Dean could take, his shaken, grateful thanks when that fear was proven unfounded and the next movement came, it was filled with his commandment to just keep going.

Dean had been awake, if not wholly aware, during this time, his eyes fixed on his father's face, perhaps not hearing the words, nor seeing the emotions, but gaining comfort none the less.

Dean's eyes briefly flickered towards the wall of broken pipes and fallen rubble before he attempted one more breath. John allowed his world to widen, heard the sounds of movement.

"It's Sammy," he told Dean, needlessly. "Your brother's here. Keep breathing. Not long now."

Dean summoned his energy and drew in another torturous gasp.

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Sam lifted his head.

There was something there, something else other than his and the Pastor's own gasps, the sound of cement scraping against metal.

"Wait! Wait," he commanded, holding out a hand to still the older man.

"Sam?"

"Do you hear that?"

The Pastor froze, listening hard.

"John," he gulped. "I can hear him. He's speaking."

"Dad!" Sam's shout echoed strangely in the old room. "Dad! I'm coming! Hold on!"

Jim and the younger Winchester fell to with renewed energy, concentrating in a single spot, crying out with relief when a small opening formed.

Scrambling wildly, shoving, bruising, grazing and heaving, Sam forced a hold large enough to admit his frame.

"Sam!" his father barked. "Call an ambulance, quickly!"

Sam ducked out, threw the order at Jim, barrelled back in again.

"Dad? Is Dean okay? What is it?"

John looked terrible; he seemed to have aged ten years, whether from grief, pain or fear, Sam couldn't tell, didn't dwell on it. His eyes were drawn instead to the prone figure lying beyond John, the soft, awful sounds coming from a man who had never been happy drawing attention to weakness, diverting with a vibrancy that astounded.

"Pipe crushed his chest," John was replying, "bad airway sounds, broken ribs, possible pierced lung. On his way to pneumonia."

"Shit. Dean?"

The elder brother's eyes rolled slowly over to the sound of his sibling's shaking voice, as always attuned to the subtle nuances.

"Sssss," he slurred, managing the sound as the air left his body once more, yet somehow Sam knew Dean was saying his name. Worried about him.

"Dad, get out," Sam said, not bothering to look at his father.

"I've got him," John replied gravely and it was then that Sam noticed his father's fingers were entwined with those of his brother's. It was a scene he hadn't witnessed for many a long year, brought a lump to his throat.

"Let Jim check you out," he suggested. "I'll stay with Dean."

"I'm fine," John growled, the pain twisting his expression belying his words.

"Dad –" Sam began to protest, halting when the dreaded presence of the Erlking brushed his mind, pushed past his body. "It's back, it's after Dean!" he all but screamed.

John lunged for his shotgun, as Dean shuddered beside him, fighting the lure of whispered promises, against the desire for the pain to stop. John's leg, swollen and sharp with excruciating pain, protested loudly.

John ignored it.

"Where is it? Sam!"

"I don't know!"

The youngest brother pushed desperately with his mind, but it proved fruitless. He knew it was there, with them, but he couldn't pinpoint its location.

He turned to Dean.

"Okay, big brother, down to you!"

Somehow Dean heard him; found the strength from deep within his shattered body twitched his right arm to the side in what could have been interpreted as a muscle spasm.

Long exposure to both his boy's reactions, movements and mindsets allowed John to interpret that convulsion into a direction and he let the creature have both barrels, rummaging in his pockets for more rounds.

Sam once again felt it push past him on its way out.

"Why isn't it dying?" he demanded. He could tell it was still in the room, torn between fleeing and the anticipation of Dean's wavering resolution.

Sam backed out again, turning to find the Pastor watching him anxiously, and Sam felt the chill of his sodden jeans travel to his heart.

"The water," he breathed, smiling triumphantly. "Jim, bless the water!"

The Pastor got to work, not hesitating, not asking for an explanation; simply knowing he wouldn't have been asked for just any reason.

"Dean?" John's voice carried out of the opening. "What is it?"

Sam went back in, reading his brother's face as easily as if he were speaking the words aloud.

"It's hurting, it can't go anywhere, the water's surrounding it," he guessed. "I think Dean can hear it screaming, remember what Emma said earlier?"

"Is it dying?" John snarled, pain, exhaustion and fear shortening his already formidable temper.

"I don't think so," Sam admitted. "But we've got it trapped; the water's holding it at bay."

"Holy water kills it," John hissed. "I know it, why isn't it working?"

Sam was silent a moment, his gaze travelling his brother's face, broken breaths issuing roughly between stained, parted lips.

"Belief makes it stronger," he murmured thoughtfully. "If a victim believes its promises, they're trapped. Perhaps," he suggested, speaking more to Dean than their father, "perhaps you need to believe it's going to die to defeat it."

A strangled groan brought John's attention back to his oldest. Dean had managed to grip John's re-armed gun and to his amazement, he was attempting to raise his shattered body in order to aim.

"No," Sam whispered, trying to reach around John to stop his stupid, stubborn, precious brother. "Don't you dare!"

John gently pushed Sam back. "Out of the way," he commanded softly.

"What! Are you crazy?"

"You're blocking his shot! Get out of the way, now, Sam."

At his youngest boy's mutinous look, John explained.

"I'll hold him; I won't let him do this alone."

Sam glanced at Dean, still valiantly trying to lift himself, moaning terribly in pain, determination etched onto his face in an all too familiar way.

John turned, awkwardly aligning himself with his boy's body in order to aid him as best he could. He shifted painfully around, lifting Dean by his armpits, allowing the younger man to slump against him, the pitiful mewling of before making an unwelcome comeback.

Sam reached forward, but John stared him down.

"I've got him," he insisted softly, fiercely.

Dean, eyes half closed with exhaustion and pain, attempted to lift the heavy gun, the object trembling violently.

John added his own steel strong hand to Dean's, lifting with him, supporting and steadying.

John locked his eyes with Sam's, who nodded in understanding. John was going to do all he could to aid Dean and it was time for Sam to sit back and watch the show.

Outside the opening, he could plainly hear his father speaking.

"We got this one last shot, Ace. You gotta make it count. This shot has to end this; you must believe it will die."

Sam waited, hoping, praying, relief sweeping through him when his patience and prayers were finally rewarded.

"I believe in you, Dean."

The last shot was almost deafening, so sudden, so anticipated it was.

In the thunderous silence, Sam listened as his brother uttered a cry of desolation and pain.

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John watched as Sam sat beside Dean's bedside.

Tubes had been inserted in his battered, shocked body, hours of surgery had been spent waiting in silence, eyes not meeting and thoughts not shared and Sam had become a statue of grief until Dean had re-emerged, attached to a ventilator but with a fighting chance at survival.

More hours had past, the sun had risen and set without remark and Dean had been downgraded off the critical list. Still breathing through a machine, but apparently getting better.

Sam hadn't left his side, hadn't spoken, but hadn't needed. He lay his long fingered had over his brothers and waited.

Looking down the corridor, John watched as Jim spoke closely to the schools principal. John had done a favour regarding a dangerous spirit for the guy, brought to him through the Pastor, while Dean had been occupied elsewhere and Sam had been in Stanford. There was no chance John would have asked his son to go back into that school.

The Principal had offered them cover, making something up to answer the questions John had been too exhausted to register and allowed the father to focus on his son's recovery.

Now, though, he knew Dean on the mend, John's mind was moving on. He estimated he had spent a little over forty-eight hours with his boy's, longer than he had planned, too long to remain any further.

He turned back to the small window in the door to Dean's room. A doctor was leaning over him, Sam still resting his hand on Deans. He could hear the slightly panicked choking as Dean came round, remembering that he hadn't liked it the first time round all those years ago, remembering it was his voice for once, not Sammy's like now, that had slowed his movements, soothed his fear.

He closed his eyes when he heard the one thing he had truly been waiting for since Dean had shot and killed the Erlking. His firstborn's voice.

The words pained him more than he could imagine, following - haunting – him down the now empty corridor.

"Is Dad here?"

End.


End file.
